Black Magic
by SashaLikaMusica
Summary: They don't know exactly how it got this way, so many bloodlines and generations combining into one, but they're a family now, and that's what matters to them. Series of post-war oneshots of Narcissa/Hermione/Andromeda raising Teddy with Draco wandering amicably in the background. Smut, fluff, etc. Obvious Blackcest with the addition of Hermione and cute Draco/Teddy family fun.
1. First Words

**A/N: This will be the first part of a series of oneshots regarding Narcissa/Hermione/Andromeda, plus Teddy and Draco, as a family post-war; smut, fluff, and Draco/Teddy family cuteness lie within.**

 **Since you're here, and since the relationship in this story is clearly labeled, I'm just going to presume that neither the age difference nor Blackcest squick you out.**

 **Prompts are always, always welcome.**

* * *

When he says it first, it's only fair that it's in front of all of them.

They're in Flourish and Blotts on a Wednesday afternoon, trying to avoid the crowds by appearing in public on a weekday when everyone else is likely to be at work. They should be too, really, but between the three of them they've built up enough hours at the Ministry to take a small vacation, and they choose to do it now, in the middle of November, when everyone else will be occupied. They're not ashamed, of course, no longer nervous to appear as a group in public, but they like to keep away from the prying eyes and muttered gossip for Teddy's sake. It's not going to be easy raising the next generation; they all know that — not with everyone in their close circle of friends having played a major role in the outcome of the war. They're all famous, and their children will be too, and soon cameras and headlines will become the new normal, but their desire, while the children are still young and impressionable, is to keep them out of the spotlight as much as they possibly can.

As such, this is the day that they choose to escape the confines of the house, which has been magically expanded for the sake of the two extra people who have taken up residence there. The manor, of course, is still in use, but belongs to Draco, and it is he who lives there now, alone, preferring its silent halls and vast, echoing chambers.

He is with them today, however; family outings have become important to them in the aftermath of the war, and though they make an odd and motley crew, they ignore the stares and whispers that follow them like shadows and manage to enjoy themselves, finding some peace in the fact that they are all there, all together, and all fiercely loyal to one another. They move about in a subconscious formation designed to protect, their instincts still on edge from the recently evaded destruction even if they don't fully acknowledge it. Whoever holds the baby is always centered, flanked on either side by her lovers with Draco flitting uneasily around the edges, ever watchful. Despite the initial awkwardness between them, Hermione always warms to see him pacing, even as she laughs; she is grateful for his acceptance of the odd turn of events. It's something she never dreamed she'd see.

Today, instead of being carried, Teddy walks, the result of an argument that morning consisting only of wails and half-hearted admonishments, the outcome being that he is permitted to walk on his own with all four adults fully understanding that he eventually will tire and tug on the hem of one of their robes anyway, asking in his gibberish to be held. For now, however, he toddles around on chubby legs, clad in a set of brand new robes of smoky grey — only solid neutral colors are suitable for him, the women have found, due to his tendency to abruptly sprout vibrant neon-colored hair. Despite not speaking, he also makes it perfectly clear when he dislikes an outfit; the sudden transformation of his skin tone to a violent and remarkably repulsive chartreuse is indication enough.

His hair this afternoon is a brilliant magenta, a tribute to Draco, who never fails to express his delight at the little boy's remarkable abilities. He follows the young man about the store, waddling rapidly to keep in stride or else clinging to the offered hand and babbling earnestly up at him. Relaxed with the knowledge that he is in good hands, the three women wander about the store, able to peruse the shelves at their leisure without worrying about the safety of their boy.

Hermione is just pulling a copy of Pride and Prejudice, a Study of Modern Centaurs in Britain and Ireland from the shelves when a hair-raising shriek pierces the ears of every customer. With a yelp, she drops the book at the same time that Narcissa, halfway across the shop, accidentally flings The Intricacies of High Elvish away in shock. It narrowly misses Andromeda, who has stubbed her toe jumping in surprise, and collides with the opposite wall. Cursing, Andy spins about to face the other two with an expression of mingled surprise and anxiety. The three women need only share a single glance to see that the same thought has occurred to all of them.

"Teddy," Narcissa says sharply. Andy and Hermione are nodding, already moving in the direction in which Draco and Teddy disappeared.

They've hardly gone three steps when Draco comes flying from the back of the shop with Teddy in his arms and a somewhat maniacal expression of delight.

"You'll never guess what's just happened!" he declares, intercepting the three witches as they move towards Teddy with low exclamations of relief. At Narcissa's attempt to take him into her arms, her son shakes his head and pulls away. When the blonde witch frowns in confusion and moves again to take him, Draco only laughs, dancing just out of her reach.

"Draco, if you don't tell us right this minute what you're on about, I'll hex you into next Tuesday," Hermione threatens, glaring at her son-in-law warningly as she steps forward to lay a pacifying hand on Narcissa's shoulder. "Relax, Cissa; he's all right." Draco is beaming in a manner truly uncharacteristic of him; Hermione can feel low-key alarm flickering through to her at the edge of the bond, and glances to her right at the elder of her wives, whose eyes are glued to the quite unharmed toddler in her nephew's arms. "Andy." Her tone is infused with nothing more than a gentle reminder, but it's enough to make Andromeda fall back, her shoulders slightly less tense than before.

For once, Draco ignores the obvious depth of the interaction; though he's had time to grow accustomed to the soul bond the three share, he's yet to grow fully comfortable with the magic it involves. At the moment, however, it seems he is too excited to care.

"He said his first word!" is his exclamation, nearly shrill in its exuberance. "Teddy's first word; he said it!" There's a moment of blank confusion for all three of them, but then the understanding hits, and he gets to watch three faces break out into identical expressions of joy and excitement. The witches crowd around him more rapidly than he can blink, their faces alight with astonishment and delight.

"What did he say?" Narcissa is the one to speak first, her words more of a croon directed towards Teddy than a query towards her son. "What did my precious boy say to Draco?" Draco has the good grace not to look affronted at the insinuation that he'll be sharing the title of Narcissa' precious boy whether he approves of it or not.

"He said it to the clerk, actually," he laughs, bouncing Teddy in his arms. "The witch pointed out the three of you shopping and asked if you were really the famous 'Ladies of Love' — " Andromeda scoffs at the title, as at least one of them always does — "And before I could answer, Teddy turned his hair blue and said, _'Mine.'_ " An incomprehensible murmur escapes Narcissa at that, and Andromeda's expression glows with unmasked elation; Hermione presses a hand to her lips in wonderment. Blue is Teddy's favorite choice of hair color, one that he has always utilized to express his contentment; it's a color most often seen at home in moments of familial peace, whether it be at the appearance of his favorite food or during a nap in his favorite spot, sound asleep against one of their chests with a hand of each of the other two laid gently on his back.

"Teddy," Hermione coos, outstretching her arms in a silent request. Draco acquiesces this time, though it is clear he is reluctant, relinquishing the toddler to the brunette he has come to consider his family. "Did you say your first word? You're such a good boy." The feeling of her wives pressing in around her from either side makes her smile grow even more; even as they reach out to Teddy, each of them spares a hand for her in a movement that's by now almost automatic, both of them curling a hand into the waist of her robes and moving in to her. Draco, though his heart warms at the sight of their obvious happiness, feels the urge to glance away — the visual confirmation that love and joy are still present in the world never fails to sting the corners of his eyes with unexpected emotion.

As it is, the moment is special, almost too intimate for the eyes of the public to rest on. The three witches have moved so close together that they're nearly pressed into one form, all smiling broadly and murmuring to the little boy in their shared embrace.

Teddy is the one to break up the coos of praise, his hair still a vibrant cobalt, with the utterance of the words.

 _"My Andy."_ Andromeda goes pale so quickly that the sight is almost laughable. There is immediate silence amongst the three of them as they stare at the little boy in shock. They would wonder if they were hearing things were it not for the clarity of the childish voice, the deep purpose in solemn, bright eyes that stare intently into theirs. Narcissa and Hermione have also frozen in astonishment.

"Andy, did you just — "

 _"My Cissa. My 'Mione."_ If there was any doubt before, there is certainly no mistaking this time of the words; they watch the movement of Teddy's lips as he address each of them in turn.

"Did you _hear_ — " Narcissa cuts herself off with a gasp when a chubby hand reaches up to press against her cheek. Opposite her, the other hand finds Andromeda; he is still sitting in Hermione's arms.

A delighted laugh escapes the brunette witch.

"Listen to that," she murmurs. "Someone's talking to us." Narcissa, too, is beginning to recover from her astonishment, a joyful smile slowly taking over her expression. Andromeda, however, is slightly shaky, her eyes bright with emotion.

"I'm so proud of you." It's meant only for Teddy, or perhaps not even; perhaps the words merely spill from her without her control. Nonetheless, her wives can hear it, as can Draco, and they all shift subconsciously towards her in one motion as tears threaten to spill over from soft brown eyes. "Sweetheart, I'm so proud." When the first tears fall, the other three know that the time has come to leave. Wordlessly, they part, Draco offering a hand to his aunt to guide her over to the fireplace so that they can floo home.

The moment they've stepped from the fire back in the living room of the little house, Hermione transfers Teddy to Andromeda's arms. Both she and Narcissa move to wrap themselves as fully around their wife as they can manage given the slight obstruction that is the toddler. The three of them end up in a sort of L-shape, Narcissa pressed into Andy's side and Hermione with her arms wrapped around her from behind. It isn't how they're accustomed to standing — for one thing, unless one of them has had a nightmare and needs soothing, Narcissa is almost always in the middle — but with the baby in the way, it's the best that they can manage. They remain so for a long time, Draco shuffling off to the kitchen with a mumble about making tea. It is only when Narcissa and Hermione's hands, wandering soothingly up and down Andromeda's side, brush across each other in passing, that they shake themselves from their thoughts and separate — not far, but just enough to look each other in the eye.

"Should we explain it to him?" It's Hermione who speaks up first, hazel eyes flitting anxiously back and forth between her wives'. Narcissa is the one to tear her gaze away, redirecting her attention to Teddy, whose hair has turned a concerned shade of maroon — an indication that they haven't schooled their overflowing emotions very well. At the recognition that he is being watched, he rewards her with a bright smile that spreads back to her, lighting up her entire face despite the heavy emotion still weighted behind her eyes.

In spite of her own solemnity of mood, Hermione feels a flutter in her belly at the sight; it's an old one, and familiar; one that, despite the years, she knows she will never truly get used to. The sight of happiness, true happiness, on Narcissa and Andy's faces, never fails to remind her of just how unbelievably lucky she is. And maybe the notion is clichéd, but the situation isn't; there's nothing like what the three of them have, and in any case, Hermione has always thought, clichés are so for a reason.

It's important that they all recognize that, she thinks, because they're not going to get anything else like this; not ever. Nothing about their situation is exactly conventional, but it's sacred and precious and something to be treasured and embraced. Besides, they're not exactly people who could be anything considered normal, whatever that is — not anymore. Perhaps not ever. They're three women who have been through extraordinary circumstances; something unconventional is what they need.

The brightest witch of her age; Hermione has always been true to her title. The brains behind the Golden Trio — she's seen death and destruction on a scale than most can be expected to in generations; she's been a fugitive and a thief; she's ridden dragons and infiltrated the government and been tortured; she fought and won a war against the most famous villain of all time, all before her eighteenth birthday. Perhaps it is fitting that the epilogue be just as unusual. They make quite the trio — the pureblooded lady of the manor, the disgraced middle Black, and the witch who helped defeat Lord Voldemort. Tack on Teddy and Draco, and they're quite an eclectic bunch, an odd little group, but no matter the manner of their bonds, they are a family.

And beside that, they're all similar, anyway; they've all loved and lost. The three of them are shrewd, loyal, and fiercely loving. It's why their arrangement works so well.

"Perhaps . . ." Narcissa begins, at the same time that Andy speaks.

"No." They both stop, and all three share a warm smile at their mingled words. "I think it would be better to wait," Andy clarifies a moment later. There's clear confliction in her eyes, and it makes Hermione move closer to her, gripping her elbow to stabilize her. "Wait until . . . until he's old enough to understand. I don't want him to grow up with the wrong impression of them." They're discussing the topic that they all know will have to be broached eventually; the story behind the picture that sits in a delicate silver frame at Teddy's bedside.

They all feel deeply the effect of the things they've lost, but it's perhaps Teddy who has had the most stolen from him, though he does not yet know the full extent of it, and remains surrounded by countless people who love him. Harry, in particular, is determined that his godson will not grow up as he did, lost and without love. It's not something any of them are worried about — Teddy, unlike Harry, is surrounded by loving people — but he is still missing something so critical, though he is not perhaps entirely aware of it yet. It's something that they will explain eventually, but they want to do it justice. It's not something any of them are looking forward to; how do you explain to a child the true depth of meaning behind their parents being heroes? They're not here, and to him, that may be the extent of its meaning.

Later that night, with Teddy already asleep, Hermione emerges from the shower and Narcissa from ensuring that the usual nightly protective charms have been placed over the house to find Andromeda sitting before their dressing table with a posture that tells them with a single glance that their wife is feeling a little lost tonight. Exchanging neither word nor glance, they cross the room to her side. Hermione's hands go to her shoulders as Narcissa's touch lingers in her hair; their familiar places that they wordlessly established at the blossoming of their relationship and which they now find without thought.

Neither of them speak, though perhaps to do so would seem the best course of action. How can they, when to call the day an unfavorable one would be misleading, but to say it was happy is not entirely truthful either? The most it can manage to be is bittersweet, and that acknowledgement won't serve to soothe their distraught wife.

Instead, they rely on touch, for when words fail, they have found that glances and subtle touches can express more than what they need.

With gentle hands, they draw Andy from the chair and into the warm space between them, nestling her between their bodies in a show of just as much protection as comfort. It is Narcissa who kisses her first, lips meeting tenderly with the same sweetness and familiarity that she has always embodied; it's what Narcissa represents to them; tenderness and comfort, a light and welcome haven from everyday bitterness. Behind her, Hermione sweeps her hair aside to press soft and lingering kisses to her neck, the light touches of fluttering fingers against her ribcage growing more significant as her lips move upwards, until she breaks away with one hand to turn her wife's head slightly towards her and flits butterfly kisses against the underside of a slender jaw as she continues to kiss Narcissa.

Andy acquiesces to the gently urging touch, only tilting her head to allow Narcissa to kiss her more deeply as Hermione's hands travel up her ribcage and meet with the blonde's at the front of her form-fitting robes. Together, they undo each silver fastening, hands working in almost perfect coordination without either of them sparing a glance.

Once the garment has been loosened, Narcissa's hands immediately slip inside to find more contact at her waist as Hermione's move away again, dancing back to trace light patterns down their wife's arms. Unhurriedly, they find slender wrists and give silky sleeves a tug, urging. Andy doesn't break the kiss to aid her younger wife in the removal of the material, but soon enough, she is free of it, and warm hands join Narcissa's in caressing smooth skin.

She only lets out a soft gasp when Hermione's fingers waltz up her bare torso to her exposed breasts, but she doesn't quite manage to stifle a needy whimper when abruptly the heated kiss ends and Narcissa moves to close her hot lips around a nipple. Instantly, Hermione's free hand is in her hair, tugging her head gently back, and though the angle is a little awkward, the kiss is deep and filled with undisguised longing. It's heaven, the feeling of both of them touching her at once; it always has been, and it never fails to make her feel safe and cherished, protected and deeply loved. Hermione and Narcissa are her sanctuary, the castle in the air that she's somehow been granted the impossible gift to inhabit, and despite all the time they've been together, she'll never quite manage to get used to how good they feel. This is usually Narcissa's place; typically, she and Hermione are the ones to take her, to wrap her up warmly between them and chase away her vulnerability with loving eyes and tender caresses, but they all know this is different, tonight. Tonight, her need is greater, and rather than be burdened by it, her lovers cherish the opportunity to make her feel worthy.

At the sight of Narcissa sinking to her knees before her, she begins to speak, but is hushed by both of them. They do this often enough — the action itself, of course — and the kneeling isn't so rare as any of them once might have thought, but it's still special, still an act of love and devotion beyond what any of them were used to before they found each other, and she's having a difficult time feeling worthy of such intimacy tonight.

All that reasoning flies out the window when Narcissa's warm, sweet mouth finds her core, and Andromeda lets out a low cry, her body lurching at the sudden descent of sensation. Hermione's arms support her effortlessly, though she breaks away from the kiss to find air. It will prove fruitless, she knows, but it's more of an instinct than an actual attempt at catching her breath. A moment later, when Narcissa latches onto her clit, her entire body goes weak. She struggles to draw air as her lovers work magic on her, cradled in Hermione's arms with Narcissa's mouth drawing the most indecent sounds from her lips, each kiss and touch imbued with such love, such tenderness and devotion, that the simple knowledge of how much they treasure her nearly brings her to the edge.

Her body trembles as they bring her higher, stringing her tighter with each movement until she's shaking and desperate, each touch drawing from her a deep and ragged gasp and each breathless whimper needier and more pleading than before. They build her up with such purpose behind each touch and kiss and gentle caress, bringing her right to the edge, and for a single, frozen moment in which she is unable to draw breath, they leave her there, suspended.

Then, oh, then Narcissa wraps her lips around her clit once more and sucks, hard, at the same time that her nipples are given a last, hard twist, and she arches into Hermione's arms with a breathless little cry, broken, and just trusts them both to hold her as stars explode behind her eyes and the ecstasy rips through her with a force that nearly makes her black out.

When she comes to, she's still trembling, aftershocks tingling up and down her spine. They've moved; somehow they must have carried her, for now they're on their bed, the two of them stretched out at her side stroking her hair and shuddering ribcage with soft hands and murmuring soothing words of love. She smiles up at them through eyes sleepy with pleasure, still dazed; satiated and entirely content.

"There're those beautiful eyes," Hermione murmurs. Through the mattress and against her side, Andy feels Narcissa chuckle.

"Looks like we wiped someone out," are her lightly teasing words, though the amusement is hushed slightly when she presses her lips against Andromeda's cheek. "That's our sweet girl." Hermione is sweeping her fingers lightly back and forth across a shivering abdomen, still feeling the echoes of contracting muscles; as Andromeda watches, she gazes purposefully up at her wife and presses a soft, lingering kiss to the warm skin of her chest, directly above her heart.

Andromeda can't help the tears that gather in her eyes at the loving gesture, feeling the intimacy of the moment overwhelm her. She's in the arms of the two most wonderful women in the world, and they both love her — endlessly. Sometimes she wonders how she got so lucky.

"Shh, pretty girl," Hermione croons, seeing the tears threaten and then spill over. "Darling, it's okay to cry." Then they're both leaning over her, kissing the tear drops from her cheeks as they both move over her body and cover her with their own warm weight, and she would try to stop the tears from overflowing even more, but she can't, and she won't; not if it means that the two of them will continue to do what they're doing. Part of her, the old her, would at least make an attempt to hold them back, but they don't withhold their emotions from one another; they've always had a silent agreement. After all they've been through, they know that not allowing oneself to feel and to share it costs too much.

They let themselves feel, and feel profoundly, and they share every ounce of it with one another, and Andy won't hold her tears back for anything if it means that they get to lie here, all together, always. And maybe she feels unworthy of it, but the truth of it is that all three of them do, and that's why they're here; for all of them to show each other that they're more than worthy and deserving. Maybe they've lost nearly everything else, but in the aftermath, they've found love, and what may prove to be their saving grace is that while they may not consider themselves deserving, they all believe each other to be worthy, and that, when they lie like this, wrapped up in each other and devastated by the magnitude of feeling, is what helps them to believe.


	2. The Dragon and the Bear

**A/N: Another installment. Reviews are love.  
**

* * *

 _In which Draco gets defensive of his little brother . . . cousin . . . sibling . . . Teddy._

* * *

Merlin, they're going to kill him.

He only left Teddy alone for two minutes — _two minutes_ while he paid for the special moon globe they bought — and he _lost him_. One hundred and twenty minuscule little seconds of having his back turned, and he's managed to go and lose their precious little boy.

They're going to _murder_ him.

Draco emerges from the dark little shop in a swirl of bottle-green robes, frantically scanning the cobbled street for any sign of the eight-year-old boy. As he steps into the sunlight, shielding his eyes from the glare, he tries to conjure up an image of Teddy that morning — his outfit, his hair color; anything that will help him locate his wayward family member. A flash of blue glimpsed out of the corner of his eyes makes him whirl about, but it's only a parakeet in the window of the Menagerie, and he remembers the moment he sees it that Teddy's hair was green when they left this morning, his customary indication of enthusiasm. They all remarked on it, in fact, and Draco was secretly ecstatic that Teddy considered a day in his presence something to look forward to.

And now he's gone and _lost_ him.

 _Think, Draco. If you were an eight year old boy in Diagon Alley, where would you go?_ Still watching the street with growing desperation, he runs through the options in his mind. They've already been exploring in the junk shop, and Teddy just bought his owl, Rufus, a packet of treats last Wednesday. _Fortescue's?_ No; he promised they'll eat lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. Teddy knows better than to get himself in trouble for eating ice cream when he's got the promise of a big lunch hovering in the back of his mind. He's too conscious of the wrath of his three guardians to dare taking a step into Knockturn Alley, though Draco, true to his duty as an older brother figure, has promised him a glimpse of it regardless once he's old enough. _Come on, Draco. What did you like most when you were a boy? Not joke shops, nor the print shop . . ._

 _Quidditch!_ That's it, surely! Less anxious now, Draco makes his way down the street to Quality Quidditch Supplies, where sure enough, glancing in the window, he sees Teddy's bright green head bobbing up and down as he converses eagerly with another little boy over a newly minted broom of the Firebolt series.

Smiling in pure relief, Draco pushes open the door, hearing the magical bell tinkle to announce his presence. He hangs back for a minute, however; Teddy is engrossed in conversation, clearly showing off his superior knowledge of Quidditch regulations, and by the look of it, the other boy is impressed. Draco can't help but feel smug at the somewhat awed look on the kid's face; he's changed immensely since his Hogwarts years, of course, but he still can't help but love when his family proves themselves superior in any way. _Survival instincts,_ he thinks briefly to himself, then scoffs at the realization that he sounds an awful lot like his aunt Bellatrix. He might suffer from lingering pureblood pride, but _that_ isn't a level of obsessiveness to which he ever wishes to stoop.

Content to wait, he settles into skimming the titles of the Quidditch almanacs lining the wall beside the door, still half-listening to the intense conversation across the store. It's only after a minute or so, however, that a new voice joins in, and suddenly, the tone of the conversation shifts. It's subtle, but enough to attract his notice, and he jerks his attention away from the almanacs, frowning as he listens closely.

 _" . . . Ought not to be allowed in public, oughtn't they, Whitby? Give the rest of the world the wrong impression, they do."_

 _"It's not like that; it's not like that at all. Please don't talk about them like that. You don't know them."_

 _"Oho, protective, are we? How touching. Don't see why, though, as they're not your real family — not even a real family, anyway! Disgusting concept, that is; all of it. In fact, every last bit of it repulses me. How can a witch marry another, let alone_ two _others, let alone their own_ blood _? Merlin, that's revolting."_

He hears Teddy begin to counter with something firm and polite, but by that point, Draco's had enough. In several quick strides, he's across the room, laying a firm hand on Teddy's shoulder. He towers over the two young wizards facing off with the younger boy, both of them around the age of Seventh Years, most likely, but small of stature. _Not even Potter was as puny as these gits._

"There is a point, young gentlemen, at which sarcasm fades to ugliness and what was amusing at first becomes rather rude and tasteless," he breaks in smoothly, hard anger evident in his tone. Even Teddy notices it, he whom Draco has tried so hard to shield from nastiness, and he shrinks just the slightest bit beneath his older relative's grip. His hair has reverted to the pale gold Draco has come to associate with fear and vulnerability.

"Would you look at that? More blood traitor scum. You'd think once would be enough, wouldn't you, Whitby, but these bastards never learn." Draco glares at the boy, his pale eyes icy.

"I would thank you not to use such language in front of a younger child," he says coldly. "But while we're on the subject of blood traitor bastards, let me remind you that my family was once one that considered everyone else to be unworthy of its notice. You were but children at the time of the war, so I will grant you your ignorance, but it is time for you to pick up the slack left by your clearly incompetent elders. The era of wizarding nobility and blood traitors is over; the stigma that once ruled so many generations has been quelled. As soon-to-be inductees into our newly rebuilt society, you would do well to remember that." The boys stared up at him, a mixture of anger and bafflement tangled across their faces.

"It's _wrong,_ " one of them finally sneers, giving up on forming an eloquent response and reverting to petty contradictions. "A widow, a Death Eater's broad — a disgraced whore, if you will — and a gold digger. That's not to mention you. You're not his real family, any of you, and the way you people mingle your blood is an abomination." A low hiss escapes Draco at that, and he opens his mouth to respond, but before he can speak, a quieter, more composed voice beats him to the punch.

"Then they are more my family for choosing me," Teddy tells them lowly. He is calm, unruffled, and it throws Draco off immensely. "One does not choose who one is born to, and so are not guaranteed to love them, but one can be sure to love those whom they choose as family. And besides, for your information, most of them are my family; you ought to do your research more thoroughly if you wish to win any arguments with anything more than theoretical evidence."

Draco nearly laughs at that — it's just like Teddy to respond with cool and eloquent logic to such idiocy — but he restrains himself; his anger still burns.

The boys stand speechless for a moment, obviously uncertain of how to respond, before one of them finally mutters a half-audible _pathetic, pansy-ass bastard,_ and Draco's fury simmers down into cold, humorless amusement.

"Really?" he asks cooly, rolling up the the left sleeve of his cloak. He's more than aware of the witch behind the counter and several other customers watching, one wielding an object that looks suspiciously like a camera, but he ignores them entirely. "I admit, I might seem to have rather lost the arrogance I was famous for in the days of the war, but tell me," he taunts, yanking back his sleeve fully to reveal the faded Dark Mark still branded on his forearm. The boys flinch. "Do this look pathetic to you?" When the boys are unable to manage to reply with anything but stunned silence, he gives them a satisfied nod and rolls his sleeve back down.

"That's what I thought. Come, Teddy. It's nearly one thirty, and if I'm not mistaken, I believe we have a lunch planned. And oh," he adds, turning back after having spun on his heel to leave. "Perhaps you are right that our family is somewhat convoluted. It's true, after all, that I don't know exactly what I am to Teddy." He pauses, eyeing them coldly with a stare he knows matches his mother's precisely. "But he is my _family,_ " he continues, and the pure ice in his tone makes both boys shiver. "And if you ever insult my family again, I will show you that the Blacks, while we may have tamed ourselves somewhat, have not lost our penchant for uncontested power, and I will show you a truly minuscule taste of it by hexing you until you resemble the Giant Squid and can't tell a Kneazle from a Snargaluff." The latter comparison he adds for Teddy's benefit, wishing to promise something darker but knowing that he should refrain from doing so, and grateful for the young boy's presence for reigning in his more violent fantasies.

They make their way back down the street to the Leaky Cauldron in silence, both lost in thought. They're quiet taking their seats in the small pub, and so subdued that Draco doesn't realize until he looks up to ask Teddy what he would like to order that he sees that the young boy has changed his appearance again. He's taken slightly aback at what he sees; heavy eyes, the golden hue of his hair almost muffled; blunt, subdued features that are almost distorted. His eyelashes are short and thick — stubby. It's an odd look, and it takes Draco a moment to accustom himself to it enough to ask why he's done it.

"It's my face," Teddy tells him, with a laugh that lacks just enough humor to make it slightly cringe-worthy. "My real face." Draco blinks in surprise. His expression must be conveying his thoughts, for when Teddy glances up at him, he lets out another low laugh. "Not very flattering, is it? I suppose I missed out on the famous Black family genes." Draco frowns.

"You're a Black," he says shortly. "Nothing's about to change that." Rather than countering his statement, as Draco expects, Teddy flushes a dark red and lowers his eyes to the tabletop. Draco chooses to let him be for a moment as the waiter stops by to take their orders. He considers not saying anything at all, knowing that Teddy is, for whatever reason, suddenly uncomfortable, but when minutes pass and the boy still doesn't look up, he abruptly leans across the table. "Bear Cub," he says kindly. "Look at me."

The nickname is what makes Teddy raise his head, a funny sort of half-smile edging its way onto his face.

"Bear Cub, what am I to you?" Draco asks him. Teddy's expression puckers in a bemused frown.

"You're my Dragon," is his matter-of-fact response. Draco smiles in spite of himself; it's been the way Teddy has referred to him since he was a toddler and overheard Narcissa making a comment about her "Little Dragon."

"Who cooks for you?"

"My Cissa."

"Who reads you bedtime stories?"

"My 'Mione."

"Who stays up with you every time you have a nightmare and are too scared to go back to sleep?"

"My Andy."  
"And who tells you all the stories about your Mum and Dad?"

"All of you do." Draco raises an eyebrow solemnly, nodding to the waiter as their lunches are placed before them. Teddy turns his eyes to his pasta, grateful for a distraction.

"We're all Blacks, Bear Cub," Draco concludes as he reaches for his sandwich. "Even your Mione, by marriage. Harry is by blood. Your Mum was, too. Your Dad was best friends with Cousin Sirius and with Harry's father James. You're not just surrounded by us, Bear Cub; you _are_ one of us." For a moment, Teddy seems like he wants to argue, but then the waiter swings by with an offer of more Butterbeer, effectively quelling all angst. Draco, sensing his bashfulness, tactfully changes the subject to Puddlemere United's dreadful season, and the remainder of their lunch hour passes without mention of their recent debacle. It's only when they're preparing to exit the Leaky Cauldron that the aftermath of their morning escapade catches up with them; upon deciding to spend the remainder of their afternoon browsing through Flourish and Blotts, they emerge from the pub to discover three witches descending upon them like a swarm of angry hornets.

Narcissa, Hermione, and Andromeda are stalking down the cobbled street, reeking of predatory intent, parting the thin crowd of afternoon shoppers like Moses and the Red Sea. All three witches are dressed in their work robes, hair done elegantly, carefully made up. They've clearly come from work, and judging by their hard expressions, they're in a temper about something. Teddy shrinks a little at the sight of them.

When they halt in front of him, Draco makes a weak attempt at a smile.

"Hi, Mum . . ." he trails off when Narcissa shoots him a stony glare. Andromeda takes a step forward, nose inches away from his.

"What in _Merlin's bloody name_ were you thinking, Draco?" she hisses, and Draco takes a hurried step back.

"I — I, er . . ." he can't seem to come up with a dignified response, and perhaps it's just as well, for Hermione is glaring at him with a look that tells him all too clearly that nothing he can possibly say will suffice to settle their tempers.

"Upon the formation of this family, I was under the impression that we spoke about conducting ourselves with _dignity,_ " the brunette witch hisses. Draco sends her a skeptical look, only to shrink back when she fixes him with a cold stare. "What about brandishing a _Dark Mark_ around in _public_ indicates a _dignified_ _response?"_ Understanding floods him — they're angry with him for the way he handled the situation with the boys; they seem to be as yet unaware that he lost Teddy.

He shivers thinking of it, and quickly casts the thought away; Hermione may not be skilled in Legilimancy, but his aunt and mother are, and he has no desire for them to pry into any level of his thoughts.

"I . . . er . . . I didn't . . ." he tries and utterly fails to come up with an appropriate reply. In all honesty, he doesn't know what he was thinking — perhaps he _wasn't_ thinking. He has to admit that when faced with such taunting, he momentarily slipped back into his old habits. Consideration didn't have much part in it.

"Didn't think, did you, Draco?" Andromeda deals the next blow coldly. He begins to form an indignant reply, then shuts his mouth. No, he didn't.

"No," he mumbles reluctantly.

"Speak up, Draco." When push comes to shove, Narcissa may be a sweet and doting woman, but Draco doubts that anyone who knows her has ever not been intimidated by her at one point or another.

"No, Mother, I didn't think," he repeats, standing up slightly straighter in a subconscious effort to gain their faith. It's not that he thinks they don't trust him — they do, or they wouldn't have let their precious little boy out of their sight for a moment — but the combined presence of these three no-nonsense, powerful witches makes him feel as though he has something to prove, nonetheless.

"There was a reporter in the shop who caught the entire altercation; I won't be surprised if you make the cover of the Prophet. You ought to have been — "

"More careful? Less like my father? If you have something to say, Mother, kindly tell it to me directly."

"I was going to say _rational,_ but if you think your actions are comparable to your father's, then by all means, let us discuss your shortcomings."

 _"Cissa!"_ It's hard to tell which of her wives the shocked admonishment issues from; with the astonished looks they're both sending her, Draco supposes it doesn't matter. He'd like to think it comes from Granger, though; he's always found an odd sort of satisfaction in seeing his former classmate lord over his imperious and resolute mother.

"Honestly, Draco, you'd think that after all Lucius's nonsense you'd know better than to flaunt his old ways." Provoked, now, Draco begins to respond indignantly, but is cut off by Teddy.

"He was protecting me, Cissa," the boy pipes up quietly. "Those boys were being horrible; he had to respond quickly. He was defending our family." This, at least, puts something of a halt to Narcissa's tirade. With a slight frown, she falls back and eyes them contemplatively, as though deciding how best to angle a fresh approach. Andromeda speaks up, taking advantage of her momentary silence.

"What exactly were those boys saying, Teddy?" she inquires carefully. Teddy's expression is a stoic mask; Draco can tell that he's trying hard not to show how affected he truly is by the hateful words exchanged earlier in the day. The boy might be quite good at deflecting, and even better at calmly handling things beyond the capacity of most of the adults in his life, but his strong intellect and quiet introspection only makes him all the more easily wounded.

Draco wonders if anyone else has noticed the appearance he's currently wearing, and if they have, whether they're aware of its significance.

"The usual," is Teddy's nonchalant response, accompanied by a one-shouldered shrug. "That we're wrong, disgusting; not really a family. They're not very creative with their remarks, actually; it's not as though we haven't heard it all before."

"Actually, they really were quite rude," Draco adds in quietly. Narcissa, he notices, is a little more subdued with the thought of someone speaking ill of her family. The emotions flashing through her eyes seem unwilling to settle. "I believe the phrases 'disgraced whore' and 'gold digger' were employed."

At that, all three women draw closer together; he watches as they reach for each other, perhaps subconsciously, though in a movement clearly born of habit. The contact is mostly subtle — a hand on Narcissa's wrist; an arm around Hermione's waist. It's familiar, protective. Only their troubled eyes betray the true depth of their reactions, and Draco has to appreciate their resilience. Despite the oddity that their arrangement has always presented, it doesn't sap the vibrance of being of any of them; he doesn't think he's ever known three women he admires more.

"I'm sorry you have to hear such things, Teddy," Hermione breaks the silence eventually. Her voice is a little shaky, and Cissa and Andy both move closer to her in an automatic response to the audible tremor.

"It's unavoidable, Mione," Teddy waves it off. "Besides, I wandered off; today was my fault." _Oh no; Merlin, Teddy._ Draco cringes as the three turn back to him with sharp glares.

"You let him — "

"It was my fault, Andy," Teddy repeats, preventing her from finishing. His tone is firm enough to convey that this is the last he wants to hear of the subject, and hearing his silent plea, the three women seem to agree to let it go.

"Perhaps we should continue this conversation later," Hermione suggests mildly after a long minute of hesitant silence. "It's the middle of the day; the three of us ought to return to work." That appears to snap Narcissa and Andromeda out of their contemplation; both women straighten up, looking between their younger wife and their two boys, their eclectic, close-knit little family.

"I am expected back soon," Narcissa concedes. "We can all have dinner tonight; Draco, why don't you bring Harry along?" She's making a genuine effort to not spoil their interaction with discomfort after their slightly heated exchange; accordingly, he attempts to do the same.

"Of course, Mother," he acquiesces with a smile. "I'll see if Harry can take a few hours off tonight." She says nothing in reply, but offers him a true smile before landing each of her wives a swift kiss on the cheek, giving Teddy's hair an affectionate ruffle, and Disapparating. Andromeda swiftly follows, leaving them momentarily alone with Hermione. Draco watches his former classmate amicably; for a moment, they simply watch each other in silence until, with a rustling of robes, she steps forward and tugs him into a brief hug.

 _"Thank you."_ The words, though muttered, are audible, and he knows that she truly wants him to know that she's grateful. After more than eight years, they know each other better than they could ever have previously imagined; he knows how important this is to her, and that no matter the frustration she unleashes upon him, she considers him just as much her family as she does the others. Their family is everything to her.

In a way, he can understand the origin of the sentiment; the end of the war, while it brought immeasurable grief and devastation, also provided the possibility of a fresh start. In its aftermath, all were able to begin anew, and with that came wonderful opportunities. Risks that wouldn't otherwise be considered were taken without hesitation, and new alliances were formed.

Even now, eight years later, Hermione hasn't managed to locate her mother and father. As to whether or not they live she does not — will perhaps never — know. Yet she has _them_ — her unconventional, helter-skelter family, and Draco knows that they mean the world to her. Having people who love her so intensely is a gift that he understands better than he can convey to her.

The thought almost makes him respond with an echoed expression of gratitude, but realizing that she hasn't specifically done anything to warrant it, he refrains, instead settling for a tight return of the hug and a murmured, _"Anytime, 'Mione."_ She fixes him with a somewhat thin smile as she steps back, and anyone else might take it as grimness, but he knows, just as he knows the significance of the appearance worn by the boy beside him, that more gratitude and affection lies behind it than either of them would ever dare to display.

"Always the sap, Draco," she says snidely, though with a fond smile that rather ruins the effect, and he makes a motion to respond in kind, but she's stepped back already, arms falling back to her sides, and before the words can leave his mouth, she turns on the spot, and is gone.


End file.
